Mercy
by writable
Summary: "And he hated himself and hated her too, for the ruin they'd made of each other." - Shortly after the incident at the Opera Garnier, a masked man weeps for his Christine. In a whirlwind of misunderstanding, rehashed memories, and with the companionship of a mysterious woman, the Phantom comes to understand for whom exactly his scarred heart beats.
1. Stranger

**Author's Note: **This story has been three of four years in the making, and I think it's high time I finally churn this thing out in its entirety. The thought of it just lying around unposted literally gnaws at me at some point every single day, so I'm hoping that with a little bit of your encouragement, I'll be able to post chapters weekly. Now, more than ever before, I would love your reviews. I'm admittedly a let's-wing-it sort of fic author, but I've had the plot for this story planned out for AGES. Somehow, this little nut of a fic just became really near and dear to my heart, and your feedback is going to be my motivation to finish it and not let it go on for a fifth year! :)

For those of you who would like a little bit more information about this story: it is set shortly after the incident at the Opera Garnier. And no, I was not mistaken in any of my story labels. Trust me!

**CHAPTER ONE**

* * *

"And he hated himself and hated her too, for the ruin they'd made of each other."  
― Dennis Lehane, _The Given Day_

* * *

Aurora slammed the door of the café behind her, taking perverse pleasure in the buttercream on her fingertips. Monsieur Petit, in an outburst that was most ill-fitting to his name, had made it quite clear that she was no longer a working woman—so with a wave of her hand, she'd sent his prized dessert sailing to the floor. That had been the end of that.

But the night was dismal and the wind stung her skin, and suddenly sharing a kitchen with the little dictator didn't seem like such a trial. A few more flying pastries would be sure to put him in his place, anyhow. But for the time being, there were only soiled fingers, and one long cobblestone pathway home. She walked, hoping the air would clear her head.

A man raced past her, mumbling in frustration, clutching his top hat against his breast.

The corpse of the Garnier, collapsed once more? _Well, what a shame. _

Never once had she been inside, but immunity to the grandeur of the Opéra Garnier was a hard thing to come by. Supposedly, it looked like the palace of Versailles – _as if the comparison had any bearing on someone as ill-traveled as her!_ – and was eternally filled with splendid sounds. It boasted the daintiest _corps de ballet _in all of France; its symphonic orchestra was composed of only the most decorated musicians in the country; and there was something about the opera's very own prima donna that seemed vaguely familiar.

A voice as big as her head…

_Carlotta, was it? _

But the glory had not come without its fair share of horror, legends of a ghost that reigned the Garnier's performances and haunted the flies. The notorious spirit himself had set the opera aflame a few months ago, and the city still reeked of smoke. Richard and Moncharmin had long set sail, abandoning the Garnier like a bastard child for the reigns of their scrap metal business back North. Those who had made a home in the opera house were long gone too, a few of them dancing on the streets for coins instead of on the stage for roses. _And all this because of a ghost, _Aurora mused. Perhaps she should have outgrown ghosts, left them behind with dolls and tea parties with biscuits, but still Aurora wrapped her arms around herself, unbuttoning and buttoning her coat for good measure.

* * *

The journey home was always silent. It was usually dark, occasionally warm, but _always _silent. It was the perfect time to ponder, reminisce, regret, or simply place one foot in front of the other in a timeless, thoughtless, cadence. Tonight, it was no such thing, and Aurora found herself annoyed.

At _first, _she'd been annoyed. The precious absence that she'd always thought fondly of had been ruined, and on a night when she'd needed the clarity. She had patience for little more than the howl of the wind, but the sound had grown louder with each passing step, and had she possessed the sympathy of any other woman, it surely would have brought her to tears. Instead, she paused, her lips parting in awe and wonderment.

Not the typical response to sobbing, she was certain. _Not the _normal _response to sobbing, _a small voice scolded. Though a strange reaction was fitting for such a strange sound. She cocked her head in thought. No, never once had she heard anyone cry like this, let alone a _man_!

It was beautiful, and the thought disturbed her more than she liked to admit. What he wept for in sorrow, he matched in musicality, and she decided that if she ever had to explain the sound, she would liken it to that of a rock skipped across a water bank. It was lonely, calculated, and hopelessly infinite.

_Mon dieu_, was she actually _enjoying _it?

She bit down hard on her lip, as though the pearl of blood would serve as some kind of penance for her impertinence. It was better this way, in any case – the man would mourn just fine without her charity. S_he _was certainly in no place to pity…

Before Aurora could finish her thought, footsteps had drowned out the man's sorrowful moans. She was struck by how vulgar the sound was in comparison, and was awarded only a moment of stillness before an arm swung itself around her neck, pulling her flush against a tall, warm frame. Hers was a shout of terror, but a calloused hand clasped itself across her nose and mouth before she could scream.

So she'd found her precious silence after all.

She squirmed wildly against him as he pressed his lips against the nape of her neck, drawing small, obscene circles there with his tongue. Her hands flew to his arm in a desperate attempt to pry it off. _Oh, to breathe, to breathe!_ Her eyelids grew heavy as her mouth grew dry, and the man loosened her buttons from their eyelets.

Perhaps she had been wrong. _Most _went mad at the end of their lives, but here she was, all of twenty-six, unmistakably delirious with anger. This man—no, this _monster_ would take her until he was sated and leave her pale and limp on a cold Parisian street. She felt her eyelids close and mumbled senselessly against his palm.

_Oh, to be young and terrible. But to be young and dead! _

A flicker of yellow caught her eyes before she fell to the floor.

* * *

The Phantom could not recall the last time he had wept.

He had _cried, _certainly, more times than he could count on his two gloved hands, but weeping was another matter entirely. Bouts of tears had come and gone, in moments of pain and in moments of hatred, but he was certain that tears like this had only been shed on precious few occasions.

Perhaps the first time had been when he'd carried in the bloodied corpse of his dear spaniel back when he was just a boy. He'd tenderly picked out the pebbles and twigs from her fur – _gifts_ from the neighborhood children – and wiped at her wounds with a square of damp terrycloth. He had buried her in a grave fit for any good Christian, but his lungs had burned and his eyes had stung as he'd packed the damp soil upon the pitiful carcass.

The second time he'd wept, he'd been a young man, eager to bed the young harem girl despite knowing the foolishness of his desire. Two times he had wept, in regard to her. Once, after he'd dismissed her, knowing that not even the _khanum_'s threat of death was enough to persuade her to touch him, and again, after she'd been killed – her corpse a still and bloodied reminder of the fate which she had preferred.

The Phantom clenched his teeth and wiped his mottled brow.

Tonight, he wept for Christine.

The very name seared his insides and sent him doubling over in agony. He ran a long, thin finger over his misshapen lips, finding the memory of her kiss there, and withdrew it quickly, letting out a great moan of sorrow. His lean breast heaved while he instinctively clutched the catgut in his cloak.

Rue du Chat-qui-Pêche was a quiet place, a place of solace that the Phantom had sworn by for years. Every now and again when the dankness of the cellars had grown to disgust him, he would roam the dim corridor, his hands trailing the walls absent-mindedly as he walked. There were blessed few intruders – his looming presence had garnered the street a haunted reputation, as it were.

Tonight he sat among some crumbling bricks, legs bent at the knees and tucked against his chest. He adjusted his hood around his bare face – what a sight the Phantom was tonight! – and steeled himself against the distant odor of smoke. With a grimace, he wiped his hands together, as though to rid himself of some forgotten soot, and let his head fall back against the cold, stone wall.

He hadn't realized he had a visitor until her low shout had shattered his reverie. A mangled sort of cry it was, not entirely coherent, and yet no less understandable. A deeper grunt accompanied the sound—a frantic whimper—the ripping of fabric. The Phantom furrowed his brow.

Leaning forward, he peered down the road. If his eyes served him well – and they rarely failed him – he made out two figures in the shadows. The first was vaguely familiar: tall, pale and slender, with wild, billowing arms and frightened eyes that glistened beneath the lamplight. The second stood behind her, face buried in her neck, hands working roughly at the seams at her side. The man let out a sickening moan of pleasure, and the Phantom turned his head, repulsed.

He would be the man, he decided morbidly, if he had to choose between the two figures before him in some sordid opera. The role of the figure in peril had never been very appealing, and the woman seemed to be a thing of beauty anyway. That alone surely cast him as the gnarled savage, who now seemed to be loosening the band of his trousers.

He had never ruined a woman before, certainly not with his body. With his voice, perhaps… with his lies…

_Oh, Christine! _

The name set his blood aflame once again, and with trembling hands, he seized the braided snake at his side and let its venom seep past his fingertips. How long would he be forced to serve out his sentence of unrequited love? The very thought brought tears to his eyes. His temples pulsed. His legs grew strong and he regained his footing. The Phantom's black heart beat against his chest to an even darker rhythm.

The man's throat felt like bliss beneath his fingertips. The silvery sound of his gloved hands against the brute's flesh gave him a perverse sort of pleasure. With familiar ease, the length of rope replaced his fingers, and the man choked on his own breath as the snake constricted his throat. The woman tumbled out of his grip, while the Phantom watched with a note of glee as the man's face turned the color of a glorious sunset before fading to the pallor of dawn. He slipped off the catgut, and tucked it back into his cloak.

The Phantom's task was complete.

His hood had pooled around his neck from his efforts, so he quickly readjusted it around his face. The lasso had served to alleviate some of his pain, as it always inexplicably did, and he used the moment of clarity to peer down curiously at the face of his second visitor.

She appeared to be delirious, mumbling nonsense when her tears would allow it and desperately gathering the scraps of her clothes. His eyes wandered over her chest and bare legs – she seemed to be fine, save for a few bruises and scrapes – until he looked away suddenly, feeling wicked.

He would leave her here, he decided quickly. She would come to her senses shortly, shed a few more tears at the sight of the bloated corpse beside her, and then be well on her way. And he… well, he would remain a ghost, or perhaps find the Gendarmes and let them perform their beloved execution. The world held nothing more for him, it never had - surely a bullet through his hideous heart would end even the worst of his troubles.

Or perhaps…

He put the idea out of his mind, attributing it to his current state of emotions. What use did he have for this woman anyway, this weak creature who could hardly protect her own body? She would be a nuisance, a traitor—

_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless… _

He inhaled sharply. No, no, he was being a fool. She was pointless, useless—

_Farewell my fallen idol and false friend… _

The Phantom pressed his eyes shut and clasped his hands across his ears to silence the sounds in his head.

_Say you'll share with me, one love, one lifetime… _

"Christine," he whispered, tears pricking his eyes, as he wrapped his arms around the slight figure and cradled her against his chest. "Oh, Christine."

Onward he went, muttering sweet nothings into her hair, while his footsteps lulled her to sleep.


	2. Blood

**CHAPTER TWO**

* * *

It struck Aurora, upon waking, that she should probably scream. Her very last thought had involved the certainty of her imminent death, after all, and even though she'd been awake for only a short few seconds, it was easy to see that things hadn't exactly _improved_. She rolled her thumb over her tender neck, and blinked a few times to clear away the fatigue that hours of sleep had laid thick upon her. Hours—had it been hours? She could hardly tell.

She could tell, however, that she was _not _at home. Waking up on the cobblestone of Rue du Chat-qui-Pêche would have made more sense, but sensibility had vanished a long time ago and taken with it all its little ducklings. If she was not mistaken – and by god, she hoped she was – she was lying quite unceremoniously upon a great bed of crushed velvet, its patterns imprinted into her sallow cheeks.

Aurora propped herself up on her bruised elbows, swatted loose tendrils of hair away from her face, and dissolved into a fit of laughter.

Oh, _mon dieu_! She was dead. She was dead, wasn't she? So this was the heaven she'd come to earn for herself! She glanced around at the four walls, its paint peeling like the skin of a mange dog, horrified by the gaudy décor that rested in mahogany shelves beneath several hearty layers of dust. Oh, and the water! A painting of a river hung askew on the north wall, all black and blue like the bruises on her arms, with violent bits of red and yellow that flickered like flames the more and more she stared at them. Somehow, god had seen fit to equip her heaven with its very own perverse version of the Seine! She peered disgustedly at the dark, uninviting water before her gaze settled on a figure at the piano.

She inhaled sharply.

He sat with his back to her, swathed in black, his long, cloaked limbs working furiously at the instrument before him. Her eyelids grew heavy as his music swirled around her in a vaguely familiar cadence, drawing out a sigh from her throat against her own will or knowledge.

The man spun around with his lips pulled back into a sinister grin. Aurora met his jaundiced gaze and sank into the sheets.

Visions of the dimly lit street suddenly flooded her consciousness. A melancholy tune played at her memory—the skipping of stones—the ghosts of calloused hands running up and down her sides—two bursts of pale yellow staring at her bitterly—and just like that, stillness.

The bruises on her jaw began to throb.

With a loud _swoosh! _of his cloak, the man rose from his piano bench, and with cat-like stealth, approached the foot of her bed. _Not a lofty housecat_, she mused, bringing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her sore arms around them. _If anything, a panther or some other exotic creature from a distant land. _She squinted, trying to make out more than just his sallow gaze from the shadows of his hood.

_A tiger, perhaps, with stripes to hide his countenance… _

He made a slight sound—Aurora stiffened in surprise; for all she knew, he had no lips!—and reached out towards her. He said it again, and then again. Aurora wrung her hands and scooted herself towards the edge of the bed.

Who _was_ Christine?

The man lurched forward, and sensing her discomfort, cupped her cheek with his large, gloved hand. His arm reminded her distinctly of the branches of an autumn tree: long, cold, and foreboding.

"Sir, you mistake me for someone else. Don't—"

He breathed the god-awful name once more and Aurora was silenced.

"I am _not_ Christine," she tried again, her voice rising in pitch. How weak she sounded! This realization irritated her more than the strange man's advances so she pursed her lips together to avoid it completely.

"_Christine._"

But _his_ voice! Why, that was another thing completely! If his limbs were autumn, then his voice was spring and summer and winter. It held her attention with its saccharine warmth and icy notes of sorrow. She felt the air around the two of them grow calm and still, and warmed the space between them with her breath of relief. But she quickly realized her relief had come a notch too soon, as the man lunged hungrily towards her. Aurora planted her tingling feet onto the rough carpet, and inched slowly backwards towards the south wall. _A door! There must be a door _somewhere_!_ The man lunged forward once again, and she staggered back in surprise, gritting her teeth against the familiar piercing pain in her knee. How dare the madman do this - save her from a drunkard's greedy mouth in order to feast on her himself! Seizing the proximity between them, Aurora reached for the man's draping hood.

He caught her wrist at once and threw it back with such force that she lost her balance. She felt her weakened legs give way beneath her, and instinctively braced her arms for the fall. Before she knew it, broad palms spread themselves at her waist, and the man pulled her hips towards his roughly.

"How you deny me!" he moaned before collapsing suddenly onto his knees. Aurora let out a ragged breath, the man's touch reminding her of the drunkard's grip from last night, and peered down at the trembling figure pooled by her feet.

His hand leapt atop hers, and she gave a startled cry. She yanked it away from him, but the Phantom pulled back, pressing soft, wet kisses against her palm. Aurora stared in bewilderment at the absurdity of the gesture, suddenly finding herself incapable of making a sound.

"You must forgive Erik," the man mumbled. His moist breath warmed her fingers while his tender kisses chilled them. "You must forgive Erik, for he is not well. Oh Christine, you've made him so! You have made him wish for _death_!" His lips moved to the center of her palm, her wrist, and Aurora stepped back swiftly before he could go any farther.

"Sir, please," she answered helplessly, while the man's chest heaved in sorrow. "I am _not _Christine. You mistake me for another woman."

His head jerked suddenly upwards, his hood pooling around his shoulders—

Aurora's intake of breath was quiet, but the Phantom heard the scream it concealed.

His howl of fury stole away her heartbeat, and the pulse in the grotesque maze of veins on his bare forehead echoed like a war drum in her ears. She caught a fleeting glimpse of wicker before it splintered thunderously against the wall behind her—the diminuendo of shattering glass—a battle cry from his misshapen lips—silence.

Black.

* * *

Aurora woke to the excruciating pulsing of her head.

She sat up in discomfort, raising a hand to the source of the pain. Her fingers grazed the enormous lump by her temple, and she moaned in pain and spat blood out onto the floor. A pungent scent caught her attention. She glanced at her forearm, across which rested a freshly applied bandage. Swiping her pinky along its perimeter, she brought the dab of ointment to her nose.

Glancing around, she realized quickly that she'd been moved. She found herself tucked under more than a few warm coverlets, the color of a fine Merlot, with a wide array of jars resting on a small table beside her. She furrowed her brow.

_A doctor has been here, no doubt about it… _

"Mademoiselle?"

She jerked her head towards the sound of the man's voice, and cursed inwardly at the ache the motion brought. When the pain finally subsided, she fixed her gaze upon his looming figure. He was leaning cautiously against the wall, his fingers intertwined and his hands braced below his breast. Every inch of him looked abandoned, like a wild, black stallion, all neatly combed back obsidian hair and sparkling emerald eyes.

But what most unnerved her, by far, was his mask. It appeared to cover just about half his face, save for a length of his lips and his chin, and she found that if she looked at it for long enough, its placid expression mocked her. As though a scrap of porcelain was supposed to make her forget what she had seen! As though it lessened her hatred for the hideous beast that hid behind it! His smug white countenance, paired with the tranquility of his posture, sparked her fury at once.

"_Damn you_!"

She surveyed the carcass of the room distractedly—splintered furniture was strewn about amongst shards of glass and shreds of tapestries—before adding hoarsely, "What have you done?"

Several long moments bred the tension in the air before the Phantom chose to speak.

"You do not remember?" he asked coolly.

Aurora stared at him with a blank expression. Privately, she deemed him a fool; the memory of tiny, pulsing veins above his mottled brow still repulsed her—how such a thing could be forgotten was quite beyond her! She was just about to voice her thoughts when the blood seeping from her bandage caught her eye.

Its brilliant hue made her acutely aware of what possible dangers awaited her. This man could very well be the end of her. Her breath caught in her throat, and her bitter reply dissolved on her tongue.

"I remember very little," she lied easily, matching his tone. Pointedly, she raised her bandaged forearm in his direction. "Enlighten me, monsieur."

"You were hit," came the man's even reply. "You fell."

"I was hit? By _what_, pray tell—"

"A bottle, a brick, a statue," he interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Does it truly make any difference? The fact of the matter remains that you were in and out of consciousness for the past few hours." He paused for a moment before taking a step forward. "You seem… _well_ enough, for lack of better words, to no longer warrant my concern." He paused and then added, "Of course, only time will tell."

The color drained from Aurora's face.

"Only time… Your cryptic manner grows old, monsieur," she spat.

The man clenched his jaw.

"An injury to the head is innately a serious matter, ma chérie," he replied, his words ripe with condescension. "I loathe to repeat myself, but it is more than likely you are perfectly fine." He wiped his hands against his trousers.

"There is a chance that I am not." Aurora furrowed her brow and picked distractedly at a stain on the divan. "There is a chance that it could be much worse."

"That you could die, yes. You fortunate woman," he muttered under his breath.

Aurora's hands trembled. The ease with which he spoke of such serious matters drove Aurora mad with fury. "You _abhorrent, inconsiderate... scoundrel!_" she cried. She let out a great breath of incredulity before swinging her legs onto solid ground.

"I will take my leave now," she told him, "Perhaps you are quite content wallowing here with the woman of your delusions,"—he flinched at her words and it did not go unnoticed—"But I am not as easily appeased."

She stood gingerly, and smoothed her skirts in an effort to convince him of her strength.

"You pity me, then," he said suddenly.

Aurora frowned.

She muttered words of agreement. "You say it as though it were a bad thing."

"It is," he spat, "You needn't feel pity for me."

"Why not?" Aurora pressed. "I feel pity for those who have experienced pain. My inclinations are hardly worth your anger."

"Well?" she added, when he said nothing.

The man appeared to be deep in thought, betrayed only by his darting eyes. He didn't need this woman's pity. The wretched emotion was the final thing he'd seen in Christine's eyes, and to be faced with it again was too much to bear. If anything, _he _should pity her. _She_ was the one who had been attacked, who could have been stranded that night, left alone to die. _She _was the pitiful one, who had been damned at birth, forced to become all the vile things that a woman was. A thing of beauty, perhaps, but wicked, too. He adjusted his mask, searching for a suitable reply.

"Never mind," Aurora said quickly, "The mistake of inquiring after you was entirely mine. What you prefer to feel and not feel is of little importance to me." Her ears rang with the sound of her voice, and she folded her arms against her chest, suddenly feeling very much like an impatient child. "What _does _matter to me, however," she added coolly, "is finding my way back home, monsieur. Now, if you'd just show me the way—"

The man threw back his head and let out a howl of laughter.

"Your optimism amuses me, mademoiselle," he said in a singsong voice, "Do you truly believe that I have any intention of letting you go? Another mistake of yours, if I may say so."

"You flatter yourself," Aurora countered without missing a beat, "Your intentions mean nothing to me. And if _I _may say so, monsieur," she continued mockingly, "I was quite content being _above _ground—"

"I could see that," the man interjected coldly, "You most certainly seemed _content _with that man's hands all over your skin. I should never have interrupted you two! Staying back and enjoying the show certainly would have been less troublesome."

He watched with a sordid delight as the color quickly drained from the woman's face. She clenched and unclenched her jaw, her gaze growing more and more distant with every passing second.

"You've made it quite clear that I am little more than a nuisance to you," she started—the Phantom's lips twitched in amusement at that: what undeniable talent the woman had in repartee!—"So I must ask you this: What else is it that you want from me? You will tolerate neither my pity nor my compassion. Am I to be your slave—is that it? Or worse yet, your _harlot?_"

Aurora took a step forward, emboldened by the flash of revulsion in the man's eyes.

"I thank you for your _help, _monsieur," she hissed, "But it is time I leave."

"You fool no one, mademoiselle," the man protested smugly, "Leaving does not make you a hero; it makes you as idiotic as the souls outside these walls that you want so desperately to rejoin."

"Respectfully, monsieur, I prefer idiocy over wishing for _death_." She smiled at him humorlessly before turning on her heel.

The memory of his muttered confession stirred in his consciousness, and he caught her at once.

Quite a temptress to his anger she turned out to be!

"_Respectfully, _mademoiselle, my inclinations are hardly worth your anger."

He threw her back her own line with finesse and leaned in to continue.

"The responsibility for your wounds I am not too prideful to accept. But if you are too thick-skulled to realize that you are in no condition to run around this place trying to find a suitable escape, then I can be of no help. If you decide to come to your senses, however, I promise to return you the moment you have recovered." He paused thoughtfully. "In the end, mademoiselle, it is your decision to make."

Aurora eyed him warily and pulled herself out of his grip.

"And how do I know that you tell the truth?"

The man's posture softened.

"You are not who I thought you were," he answered simply. "I have no use for you."

Aurora found herself struck dumb by the man's sincerity. That she did not belong here had been evident to her—finally, _he_ had recognized it. She wondered briefly about what had changed—he did not strike her as someone with any semblance of an open mind.

In some unknown place, his stark words had stung—to be so easily dismissed by anyone_, _even a madman, was rarely a favorable thing—but she quickly brushed away the emotions. They would both receive what they wanted, it seemed, if she agreed: she, her freedom, and he, his solitude.

The man's fixed gaze reminded her rudely that she had not responded, so with an eager nod, she sent him on his way.


	3. Clean

**CHAPTER THREE**

* * *

Every little thing that Erik knew about the female form, he had learned from his piano.

They were one in the same, as far as he was concerned—things of enviable beauty that could produce the most exquisite sounds ever heard by the human ear. His fingers danced across the polished ivory, eliciting a laughter like the tinkling of a gypsy's sterling anklets. He slowed his fingers, pressing, stroking, clenching his jaw against the instrument's wanton cries of ecstasy. A single note brought back memories of his flawless soprano, the softness of her lion's mane against his pale neck, the taste of her lips, wet and sweet, moving with his own.

These were the things that would kill him one day. Not the guns of the Gendarmes or the torches of the mobs, but the memories of poison that would haunt him until his limbs grew gaunt and his mind decided to feed on itself like a foaming, rabid dog.

He blamed his inevitable demise on this strange woman. It was always a woman, wasn't it? He'd seen more than his fair share of the weak, wicked creatures, but here was a specimen that was unlike anything he'd ever come across. She breathed fire, and what she lacked in refinement, she made up for with a hellish tongue.

Certainly, she was no Christine.

It almost made him chuckle, his absurd delusion. In a way, he had found the perfect woman to break him from his reverie, for her plain face and vulgar mouth made her the very opposite of the woman who still owned his heart. Without saying so, she'd reminded him that there would never be another woman like the one he'd let slip through his fingers, who by now, undoubtedly cajoled by her beloved _Vicomte_—the Phantom paused to spit on the ground—would be married within the next few days.

The thought alone struck a chord deep within him, and he doubled over, clutching his abdomen and fighting back the sour taste in the back of his throat. Part of the horror was knowing that the responsibility for his troubles fell squarely on his own shoulders—he'd been a fool to think that such a creature of ethereal beauty and grace had a place in her heart for a monster like him.

His thoughts wandered again to the woman that rested in the adjacent room. By a sheer stroke of luck, she'd been spared the nightmare of his face, for the image was lost in the deep recesses of her consciousness. Erik had wondered briefly if the woman was lying when she claimed not to remember what she'd seen, but a woman's mind was a matter that he'd learned recently not to dwell too long on. Besides, were his face still carved into her memory, certainly she would not have had the courage to put up such a fight!

As much as it infuriated him to admit it, she did have some merit in chastising his behavior. Erik could not for the life of him recall the last time he had experienced such an episode, thrown a tantrum that put the fits of the Garnier's young stagehands to shame. He had broken out of his spell with only a vague memory of what had angered him so, until he caught a glimpse of his unmasked face in the shards of a shattered mirror. The woman's limp body, curled loosely upon the floor, had confirmed his suspicions, so hurriedly, he had found his mask and pressed it into place before daring to examine her.

It had been with tiny pangs of guilt that he had looked at her wounds, first the sizable lump on her head, hidden in part by greasy tendrils of honey-colored hair. Then his eyes had moved down to the cruel gash on her arm, which shielded her face. That gesture of fear, frozen in time, was the wound that hurt the most.

His options reeled before him. He could leave her, flee to the country side, and await his execution. He had postponed it far too long, as it were—imminent death was no longer a fiend, but a friend. He could deposit her motionless body onto some lonely street, wait for someone with a weak stomach to stumble upon the figure and shriek for a medic. He considered this only briefly, for he knew that it was quite past noon, and that a lonely street at this hour would be impossible to find. The Gendarmes were a thrill, but the thought of common folk made him queasy.

In the end, Erik chose the third option: to wait for the woman to stir. She would undoubtedly suffer without prompt and proper treatment, and with a slight, crooked smile, Erik mused that such things were best left to someone of his skill. In any case, her death would bring him no relief. By now, the thought of murdering another person, let alone a _woman_, had quite lost its appeal. Men were vile, unfeeling creatures—the terrified face of his last victim flashed through his mind—but to take this woman's life was to commit some great sacrilege upon the very legacy Christine had left behind.

_It's in your soul, that the true distortion lies… _

_Why do you curse mercy? _

Erik shut the lid of the piano and poured himself a tall glass of brandy.

* * *

Aurora raked a hand gently through her hair, and yanked it away in disgust. If she looked as awful as she felt, then she was certainly a fearsome thing to behold. She crossed her legs, and leaned back against the Turkish divan with a loud sigh, inspecting the décor of the strange man's guest bedroom. Unlike his foyer, which had overwhelmed her with its many shelves of absurd trinkets and dark paintings that seemed like little more than a waste of perfectly fine canvases, the room was delightfully simple and youthful and bright. On four cream walls hung beautiful scenes carved into long sheets of glistening, oiled mahogany, and on each bedside table rested a vase which housed a single rose. Deep fuchsia curtains were draped over the singular window, but pulled back with thick gold rope to treat its guest to a view of the city. And a beautiful view it would have been, Aurora mused, were the ashen corpse of the Garnier not lying in the middle of it.

The man—Erik, he had called himself—had left her some time ago, and in his absence, three things had changed: the air had grown stifling, the pounding in her skull had vanished, and the silence had slowly begun to madden her. She braided a particularly irritating tendril of hair distractedly before pulling it all back into a loose chignon.

This simply would not do.

It had occurred to her on more than one occasion to ask permission to bathe, though the notion had been followed by such an overwhelming feeling of humiliation that she'd promptly shoved the thought aside. Her thoughts wandered to her childhood, to the stifling lessons imposed on her by her mother in order to prepare her for womanhood.

_One, a gracious host must always treat her guests with the utmost respect. Two, a gracious hostess must always anticipate the needs of her guests. Three… _

Aurora decided amusedly that by this definition, Erik had—how would her mother have put it?—_most certainly failed. _Though, in his defense, the name 'host' did not quite suit him, and certainly she did not consider herself his _guest. _'Captive' seemed better-fitting—no, 'a horrendous misjudgment' was better, still. Besides, womanhood was a poor ideal to strive for. Long ago, Aurora had deemed _womanhood_ a beautiful word for something quite hideous. Womanhood was suffocating and tiresome and filled with inanities.

Most of all, womanhood was damning.

Sighing her thoughts away, she swung her legs over the edge of the divan.

_It is one thing to be damned, _she decided, _and another thing completely to be dirty. _

The door shut softly behind her.

* * *

The brandy had done a decidedly miserable job. In fouling his breath, Erik conceded that it had far surpassed his every expectation, but in dulling his senses, it had sorely failed. The room flashed around him in garish whirlpools of color, and his fingers, drumming against the empty glass, were slowly driving him insane. He was contemplating hurling the snifter against the wall when a knock came at the door.

In the brief pause before he stood to open it, he wondered when he'd last heard the sound. Guests were typically needed for such a thing, and he'd never been very fond of company. A select few individuals had visited him, of course, but never once had they bestowed upon him the absurdly pleasing inanity. Antoinette Giry had always been far too proud to knock, Nadir—too bold, Christine—too timid. With a furrowed brow, he turned the doorknob; clenched his jaw when it creaked.

"I apologize for disturbing you, monsieur, but I…" the woman stared at his mask distractedly, eyes darting across the plains and valleys of the porcelain as though trying to commit every contour to memory. Erik cleared his throat, irritated beneath her prying gaze.

"Have you stared your fill?" His eyes darkened, and Aurora saw his fingers curl instinctively into a fist.

Her mouth opened and closed. "Yes," she answered simply—she swore she saw the man's lips twitch—"I was just wondering if I could bother you for a bath."

She pursed her lips into a hard line while the man seemed to ponder the idea. For a moment she was thankful for the layer of grime that covered her face—at least he would not see her blush!

He dipped his chin slightly after a lengthy pause. "I will prepare one for you now. Wait here."

"Don't, please," Aurora protested. "I could do it myself, if you'd just show me to the washroom."

"That is not necessary. You should be resting—"

"Really, I'd much prefer it."

An unidentifiable emotion flashed through his eyes.

"As the lady wishes," he said coldly, "Follow me."

He pushed past her roughly, leaving only his scent in his wake. It was earthy, a fact that Aurora found endlessly amusing. _How a man that other-worldly smells so much of earth is beyond me_, she thought, and smiled, pleased by the incongruity.

Cheerily, she strode behind him, more eager than ever for a tub of steaming water and a hearty block of soap. She wondered privately whether the man might have a bottle of fragrant oil. Perhaps that woman Christine had left one behind?

She caught herself, horrified. The floor beneath her would have become her deathbed had the words escaped her mouth! She pursed her lips, as though preventing a myriad of irresponsible thoughts from tumbling through.

The washroom was dimly lit but surprisingly grand—quite fitting for the man to whom it belonged, Aurora mused. Cool marble floors welcomed her feet as she trailed her fingers along the deep burgundy wall.

"You are limping," Erik said suddenly.

Aurora glanced down at her feet as though she'd never noticed. "It's nothing to worry about," she said quickly, "An old injury, is all."

Erik furrowed her brow, but did not press any further. He gestured to a slender mahogany wardrobe sitting in the corner of the room.

"You will find what you need to dress in there," he said, "Anything in it is at your disposal."

Aurora's mouth opened and closed, and for the first time in a long while, she found herself at a loss for words.

"T-thank you," she sputtered, her brow creased with just a touch of suspicion. "That's rather kind of you."

The man hesitated.

"You needn't thank me for anything," he said, and with that, he was gone.


	4. Wounds

**Author's Note: **Hello everybody! I hope you are enjoying this story thus far and thank you very much to those who have left a review! I really appreciate it and am so glad to hear that you like it~ If I may, I'd just like to ask all future readers to please leave a review! It just motivates me so much and as someone who would really love to be a published author one day, any sort of feedback—the good, the bad, and the ugly—helps me a ton. Now without further ado, chapter four!

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

* * *

For a brief, splendid moment, there was silence. Erik barely hesitated to return to his snifter of brandy. He only paused for a moment, making the mouth of the glass purr with a finger wet by his tongue, before bringing it to his lips. The amber liquid singed his throat as it made its downward journey, dissolving the bad taste that his lovely _ingénue_ had left in her wake. Quickly the silence faded, overtaken by the furious hum of the boiler, the trickle of water into his ornate marble bathtub that he'd never once used. A creature as grotesque as he was damned to _admire _great beauty—certainly not bathe in it.

But the sound of the stream of water quickly turned into something else—something far more... arousing. Fleetingly Erik thought of the woman's bare back, her flesh pulled taut over her bones just as her high cheeks were—her strong shoulders which sloped into her lean and graceful limbs—the washcloth held delicately in her long fingers, wiping away at a woman's most exquisite and intimate places, placing he would never know...

Erik bit his tongue, _hard_, satisfied by the taste of blood.

In his brief haze of lust, he had missed a few other token sounds like the boiler's low murmur when it was just about shut off, the mousy squeaks of wet heels against his tiled floor, the _click! click! _of the giant wardrobe as the woman drew it open. And just like that, before he could prepare for it, Aurora emerged from the washroom looking very much like his Christine.

Suddenly he was overwhelmingly annoyed with himself for having given the woman access to the wardrobe, the one he'd spent days filling with dainty cottons and elaborate silks and heavy muslins in preparation for his life together with Christine. Red had been the color of his cheeks while he'd sat waiting in the most talked-about clothing boutiques in the city, distractedly composing an aria in Don Juan in his head in order to take his mind off of seamstresses' curious, impertinent stares. How many times had he imagined this particular dress swathed about Christine's delicate little figure, complementing her pale skin with its dark navy hues, and cinching in to accentuate—but not to draw too much attention to—her tiny dancer's waist. He clenched his jaw against his cruel mind and wondered if it would ever cease to taunt him.

Aurora's honey-colored hair was swept thoughtlessly across one shoulder, save for a few fringed tendrils that grazed her high brow. She was rather a tall woman, a trait which Erik amusedly designated as the reason for her shameless—and insufferable—tongue. Despite her limp, which he was mildly curious about, she held her head proudly upon broad shoulders and strode with a sort of sugary confidence that seemed to command he hold his tongue.

He noticed that her lips were moving, but took him a few long moments to realize that she was speaking to him.

"I was wondering if you would show me to your supplies so that I could redress it."

His eyes narrowed.

"My arm," she continued uncertainly, pointing to the pink, swollen gash, "I had to remove the bandage."

Studying him intently, she found herself frustrated with her body for its reliance on the man. Certainly she was capable of caring for herself, and yet somehow she felt as though in the coming hours, she would only ever be able to act with his precedent command. She'd learned early on—and with much disappointment—that her loud, boundless anger had not the effect on him that it did on other men; if nothing else, her own sharp tongue had found a twin in his! _At least he's proven himself capable of showing benevolence_, she thought, stroking her new skirts. _Surely if had he continued to act a beast, I would have had to unleash a few choice words upon the man!_

"No."

Then again, perhaps she still would.

"No?" Aurora couldn't decide whether she should feel indignation or mortification at his refusal. She stared at him instead, unsure how to proceed with his impertinence, and noted a flash of unidentifiable emotion in his emerald eyes.

"What I mean to say is that I would much prefer you let me do it," he said quickly. A wave of panic coursed through his system at the thought of handing over the many canisters of herbs he'd spent years collecting in Persia, the vials of ointment, the bottles of serum. He didn't trust this woman, not one bit, and there was really no saying what sort of mischief she could get up to, left alone to tend to her wounds. He had enough sense to know that he was better off keeping his thoughts to himself, so clearing his throat, he added, "It's quite essential that you rest."

Aurora wrung her hands together reluctantly, a gesture that Erik observed with much annoyance. He had finally learned to play the part of the gentleman to perfection, had he not? Was it really so difficult for her to be the ever-abiding damsel in distress!

"Forgive me for being so _forward_," he said bitterly, "Clearly you are displeased."

"Surprised," Aurora corrected. "Shall I sit there, then?"

Erik swallowed back the bile in his throat. This woman was admittedly better than most at hiding her disgust. She'd let it shine through only once, a mistake she'd fractionally redeemed herself for by not repeating. It was a shame that such a large part of the opera house had burned down at his hand; surely she would have made a fine actress!

Taking a seat on a plush Persian ottoman beside her, he reached out for her arm, a gesture to which she replied with refreshing acquiescence. Erik was momentarily taken aback. He had thoroughly expected the same reluctance he had seen in her eyes to be evident in her body language; to betray her composure with a familiar look of terror that he had seen so many times. Perhaps she had learned to keep quiet for now, frightened into submission, but certainly his touch would elicit some sort of response. She would part her lips in a soundless scream, the silence a token of her paralyzed repulsion. Or perhaps she would shriek like a dull-witted child unable to comprehend the touch of the monstrosity before her.

Either way, Erik heard nothing.

He spent a moment examining the wound before replacing her arm beside her on the chaise. He reached for a piece of terrycloth and pressed it against the mouth of a dark brown bottle. It grew dark and heavy with a thick, green liquid, and Aurora watched with a nervous frown as he brought the cloth nearer to her. He gestured for her arm once again. When it came without protest, he swiped the cloth along the length of the cut, eliciting both a grimace and a murmur of irritation.

"You should have warned me that it would sting."

Erik noted the wrinkles that had formed above her scrunched nose, and the peculiar sight quirked his mouth.

"A warning wouldn't have stopped the pain," he countered.

Aurora shook her head.

"No, I don't suppose it would have."

Erik turned away, dipping a new pad of cotton into a clear, oblong jar, and painted the length of the wound with the gel. As he busied himself once more with a roll of gauze, Aurora took a deep whiff of the ointments.

"Aloe," she began slowly, "Aloe, peppermint, and... and..." She trailed off, clenching her jaw in frustration. Erik watched curiously as she searched the floor, her gaze swinging from side to side like a pendulum. With sudden triumph, she finished, "And Kondor."

Erik bowed his head in mystified approval, a gesture to which Aurora replied by clapping her hands. Erik shifted in his seat and she muttered a quiet apology for interrupting his careful work. Extending her arm towards him once again—a gesture that Erik noted with a swell of inexplicable joy—she observed while he pressed a length of bandage against her wound. Carefully he applied firm pressure to its perimeter until he was satisfied with the seal he had created.

Safely hidden behind loose strands of hair, Aurora's eyes darted out every so often to catch a glimpse of the man before her. She felt certain that he had been doing the same, stealing glances at her while she focused intently on his work, memorizing his every step should the need to redress her wound herself ever arise. Noting that his eyes were most certainly green, she wondered how they had appeared to be ferociously amber only a few hours ago. Even his hair, thick, obsidian locks that had once seemed menacing to her in their darkness, now fell thoughtlessly across his forehead. Aurora was reminded of a young, studious child, heedless of the world around him so long as there was work to be done.

Erik tried not to let it show just how unfamiliar this all was, this proximity, this _contact_. What other woman besides Christine had he ever touched in his life, save for perhaps the cunning gypsies in his past or the kind Antoinette Giry or even Marie Perrault, in all her red headed glory? And even then it had not been like _this_, with his fingers against the impossibly soft flesh of their forearms, or his heart beating beneath his scarred chest with muted desire.

"May I ask how you managed to come across Kondor?" The sound of her voice startled him, so deep was he in thought. "I was under the impression that it grew only in Persia." Erik's eyes flickered between her wound and her bewildered expression. She had pulled her lips into a taut line, frustrated by the possibility of her own error. Erik nodded slightly, trying to contain his curiosity at the vastness of her knowledge.

"You are correct, _mademoiselle_."

"Then—"

"I spent some time there when I was a young man." He tensed his jaw, pretending to be absorbed with a final examination of his work, praying that his feigned concentration would be enough of a barrier for her questions. Aurora recited his words in her head with curiosity. _How strangely he speaks of his past self, as though he is an old man! Certainly he cannot be more than thirty-five years of age..._ She mumbled a few words of half-satisfied acknowledgement before leaning her head back against the chaise.

"Thank you," she said when Erik pulled away.

Suddenly, a loud growl erupted from her stomach, and she placed a hand over her abdomen to smother the sound. Erik stood up abruptly and took a moment to adjust his cravat. Aurora tensed at his enormous, looming figure, reminded of the ferocious beast that he had turned into what seemed like only hours ago.

"Is something the matter?"

Erik shook his head with perhaps more vigor than he had intended, motioning vaguely to her form on the chaise.

"You are hungry."

"I'm alright," she reassured him quickly, "Thank you again for everything." Erik noted the attempt to dismiss him, and it awakened a flourish of anger within him.  
Immediately, he turned on his heel, and Aurora spend a few long moments wondering if she had offended him. She did not hear him return until he was standing before her, with a sterling tray of bread and cheese. Against her will, her stomach let out another cry of hunger, and she tried to recall the last time that she had actually eaten, deciding hastily that it had been the morning of her last shift at the cafe. _And that was how long ago? _

Overcome with sudden confusion, she asked Erik for the time as he bent down to place the tray beside her. Instinctively, he replied, "It's the evening of the twenty-ninth."

"How can you be so sure?"

Erik tensed visibly. How could he be so sure, she wanted to know? He could be sure because he had been counting the days—no, the _hours _since he had staged what was undoubtedly the most disastrous event at the Opera Garnier. He could be so sure because on that night, there had been fire. On that night, there had been a woman's lips pressed to his lips, and his hands had gripped her around her waist and her hair had grazed his jaw and he had dreamt about the life they would have and the kisses they would share and the nights that would pass by too quickly as he loved her body with his.

Coldly, he replied, "There is a timepiece by the organ since you clearly do not trust me,"

A crease formed on Aurora's brow. "Regardless of my emotions, _monsieur, _I dislike very much when people tell me what I am feeling." _  
_

Erik lowered his gaze briefly in a gesture that Aurora interpreted as defeat. Before she could utter another word, he had turned on his heel. She watched him leave in confusion, turning to stare at the enormous tray of food that he'd brought her before returning her gaze to his retreating form.

"You're not staying?" she asked, surprised.

He looked over his shoulder, pulling his lips into a taut line.

"Would you like for me to stay?"

Aurora furrowed her brow in confusion. "Only if you are hungry... I mean... only if you wish to..." She blinked a few times, embarrassed by her lack of composure. She had only offered to share a meal with the man, had she not? And yet the man seemed to ponder her invitation with the utmost intensity, the visible half of his lips pursed so tightly that they seemed almost to go white. She shifted uncomfortably on the chase while she watched him. _It's only a meal, after all_, she mused curiously, _I haven't asked the man to stand on his head for my entertainment!_

Abruptly, Erik cleared his throat. "I must decline," he muttered, bowing his head gently, "If you need anything else, however, do not hesitate to find me in the study." He pointed vaguely, and Aurora nodded. And just like that, he turned once again on his heel, marking his departure with the faint click of a door.

* * *

Leaving Aurora to her own thoughts, Erik sat behind his desk, staring blankly at the patterns in the glossy, cherry wood. He traced them absent-mindedly with his fingers, recounting her invitation. Suddenly, for the life of him, he could _not_ remember her exact words. Had it been: _Are you staying? _or _You're not staying? _He found that he couldn't decide.

_Are you staying?_

___You're not staying?_

Every passing second seemed to dilute the authenticity of his memory. Had she been disappointed upon his refusal, or had she heaved a sigh of relief? Had her words formed any semblance of an invitation at all? It was, sadly, possible that she had simply requested a few moments of his company to soothe her loneliness, or perhaps she had only meant to invite him as a socially-ingrained formality.

_Are you staying?_

___You're not staying?_

Frustratedly, he sighed and pounded his fists upon the desk behind which he sat. It was infuriatingly trivial, that particular detail. He'd experienced enough to know that words meant nothing, that words could swear any single emotion and still be betrayed by the actions of the one who spoke them.

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Say the word and I will follow you..._

Erik pressed his eyes shut as though it would rid him of the song in his heart. It seemed more to him like a knife than a melody—piercing, slicing, urging him towards his beloved death, lying in a pile of his own blood.

_Anywhere you go, let me go too..._

He laughed bitterly, knowing with cruel irony that death would not come for him any time soon. How fitting that he should live his life a _living _corpse, perpetually awaiting something to make him complete one way or another. He pounded the desk with his fists once more, and this time was surprised to hear an echo emitted from the room he'd left the woman in. He stood abruptly, ignoring the pulsating in his temples.

He scanned the lair with an artist's precision, checking quickly and efficiently to make sure that nothing was misplaced. The bottle of brandy and a half-empty snifter, atop the piano just as he had left them. A leather book of sheet music beside them, collecting dust. His paintings remained in place, as did his empty vases... But the woman—the woman was gone.

With his heart beating fresh blood in his chest, he looked around frantically, cursing himself for ever leaving the woman alone. She had tried to escape him, he was certain. Her kindness, her politeness—they had all been acts; and _well-performed_ acts, at that. In a few long strides he found himself by the chaise, determined to stop the damn woman from escaping, simply out of spite. But he never got the chance, for she had never left. Instead, he found her retching on her hands and knees, trembling as she drew in ragged breaths.

In instinctive horror, he was by her side immediately, hands braced around her weakened shoulders to lift her back onto the chaise. She made a frightening sound, her chest heaving violently in a losing battle for air. Erik's eyes flickered between her heavy-lidded eyes, her unusual pallor, and the repulsive contents of her stomach that dribbled down her chin. With calculated panic, he eyed the single gondola that lay solitary upon the water.

There was only one place left to go.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Don't forget to leave a review! And Happy Memorial Day Weekend to my fellow Americans! :)


	5. Reunion

**Author's Note: **Whoops, I sincerely apologize for this being so late! I'm sort of coming off two of the busiest weeks of my life, so from now on updates should resume every weekend. Stay tuned. And as always, I would love if you could review this chapter, especially since we'll be meeting someone new! :)

* * *

**CHAPTER FIVE**

* * *

Swirling a long silver spoon around in his teacup, Nadir Khan let out a loud breath. He glanced around his flat with a distracted sheen over his eyes, and brought the cracked china to his lips, succumbing to the aromatic spices of his past.

Persia had ceased to offer him anything worthwhile the moment his son had taken his last breath. Forced out of the country ten long years ago, he had searched long and hard for a place to settle once again. At one point, he had come close to residing in the outskirts of Persia, amongst the nomads whose faces came and went like playing cards shuffled into a deck. It would be enjoyable to live in complete independence, away from a life that had stolen away more than it had given. He would keep out of sight for the most part, make the day-long journey to the nearest village should the need for supplies arise, and lead a quiet, humble life for the rest of his days. He had mulled over the idea thousands of times, rolling his thumbs idly around one another, but the same thing had stopped him each time. He knew it would never be enough. There was always something else—_someone_ else—that he knew he needed to see.

_The Opera Garnier._ It sounded ordinary enough, but the sight of it was another thing entirely. One front page, colorless photo of the creation and instantly in his aimless wandering, he had found a destination. Touches of familiarity lied in the stout arrogance of its pillars, touches of the only architect in the world that could both conceive and execute such majestic plans—

Erik was hardly the most benevolent soul he had met in his lifetime. The man could only ever be a heap of raw nerves, the way Nadir remembered him, a man who perpetually caressed the line of implosion. Chuckling fondly, Nadir recounted the first time they had met. A much younger man he had been then, albeit old enough to execute the shah's preposterous demands with a certain degree of paternal disapproval. It had been his utmost mission to find Erik—known only as the strange, traveling magician who could shoot sparks out of his fingers at the time—and bring him back to the shah's mother, the _khanum_, for the purpose of... entertainment.

He had accepted the task with a clenched jaw, irritated by the fact that it meant he would be sent on yet another laborious journey simply to sate the _khanum_'s every whim. If it was ice on fire, the _khanum_ would have it. If it was snow falling alongside the blazing, Persian sun, the _khanum _would have it. But Erik... well, Erik was a little harder to persuade.

It was the timbre of his voice that he remembered most, even a decade later. Nadir pressed his lips into a small smirk. Erik's first words to him had resembled something of a threat, if his memory served. He had been armed against those, he recalled himself thinking, but that _voice!_ For a fleeting second, Nadir had been confident that no weapon in all of Persia would ever live to duel with it.

The menace in the man's sparkling emerald eyes had convinced Nadir he would most certainly be returning to the shah empty handed. Something about the way the light danced in the dark, green orbs reminded him of a naughty child, intent on wreaking havoc. It was a dangerous look, a feral one, one of absolute emotional abandon. Briefly Nadir had likened the man to a moon with no ruling sun, eager to taint the dark night sky with its eerie ivory shadows. Nadir had been lucky. It had taken some healthy negotiation and two entire days of thought on Erik's part, but the man had eventually agreed to leave for Persia with Nadir in the morning. The tall, olive-skinned man had noted to himself the way Erik had _conceded _to the shah's demand, as though he himself were a king.

Draining the last drop of tea onto his tongue, Nadir leaned back in his chair, consumed by the memories of his dear but ill-fated friend. Erik had been a rogue to travel back to Persia with, a wild stallion in every possible way. Many a time he had carelessly and silently excused himself from the journey, leaving Nadir to wonder whether he would ever lay eyes on the strange, half-masked man that he had been ordered to fetch. But without fail, shortly after each disappearance, he would return, a cryptic gloss in his eyes that Nadir had learned never to attempt to decipher.

Over the years, they developed a private, unique sort of friendship. In Erik, Nadir had found a companion in a time of political strife and a world of ruthless betrayal, and in Nadir, Erik had found a person, a single person, before whom his mask could come off.

But it had been that very friendship that had reserved him a place in prison, Nadir recounted, pursing his lips. He had never regretted the time he'd spent there, for inside his jail cell had often been a safer place than outside it, amidst a crumbling empire. And aside from that, there was hardly a worthwhile life waiting for him behind the prison walls. His son was dead. His wife was dead. If he could find a shred of peace in a prison cell or a scrap of bread and a bite of boiled potato, then, _Allah_, he would take them!

Nadir remembered staging Erik's arrest while his armed men stood outside the door. Erik had proven to be far too threatening a soul for the _shah_'s liking, and had been summoned for execution. It would have been Nadir's final task, to slice the masked man's head clean off, but it had seemed such a heinous crime than he knew he would never have the heart to do it. On the trek back to the palace, he'd let Erik go, demanding that he follow the coastline and stay strictly to the undergrowth. He'd been met with wide, alarmed eyes, wary of the kindness with which he was being treated. Nadir had waved nonchalantly, clarifying that his actions were far from kind. _A price in return for your life, _he remembered mumbling to Erik in the darkness, _There mustn't be any more killing. _

He'd thrown a few small leather purses his way, muttered a goodbye, and patted his horse to continue its journey. It had only surprised him slightly to be greeted with nothing but shadows when he'd cast a backwards glance. Erik had paid his price, and now, he had his own to pay.

Nadir eased himself onto his feet and poured himself a second cup of tea. His wealth—and youth—had extinguished considerably between his imprisonment and his move to Paris, evident in his modestly furnished flat and creaking knees. With taut lips, he let his mind wander to the promise that Erik had made to him that night beneath the ominous Persian moon.

It was a broken promise now. The young brunette that he'd warned Erik about ever since he'd come to know of her had tugged on his very last heartstring. He'd been seared to his core on the evening of his _Don Juan Triumphant _premiere, by her hands nonetheless— a pitiful unmasking that had made Nadir cringe in his seat. A brief, ethereal second of astounded silence had been followed by minutes of infernal chaos. Erik and the girl had descended through some unseen trapdoor in the floor of the stage, Nadir momentarily blinded by the monstrous flames that overlooked the opera house like devilish gargoyles.

Swiftly he'd ushered those around him out of the rapidly deteriorating hell, ignoring the unnerving threats of angry, terrified patrons. Slipping expertly through a door in the wall, he'd descended down the stone staircase, skipping the fourteenth step the way Erik had once instructed him to. The subsequent memories had etched themselves into Nadir's mind like wind, transparent and fleeting. Shrill, desperate sobbing. Christine. Sweet, torturous bravado. Raoul. An unspoken request. Erik. A kiss.

Destruction.

The following moments had passed quickly, exacerbated by Erik's frantic, absent-minded mutterings, his hands wringing against his breast while Christine fled to her lover to untie the braided rope. Erik had made a quiet request to see the girl her last day unwed, and Raoul had accepted with noteworthy pallor. Signaling to Nadir to escort them both out, Erik had taken a step towards the mirrors, poising his fists to smash them. Had Nadir not been so focused getting the young couple to safety, he would have noticed Erik's long, skeletal fingers reach for the white mask atop his organ. He would have noticed the wistful glance cast over his shoulder. He would have noticed Erik's leg stepping inside the frame of a shattered mirror.

The magician's final trick—

"DAROGA!"

His thoughts interrupted by the gruff shout and urgent pounding on the door, Nadir leapt out of his seat. _That voice!_ He could never forget that voice, not until his last breath. He turned the handle to open the door, and paled at the sight of what stood behind it.

"Erik?"

With an exasperated sigh, Erik pushed his way into Nadir's flat, irritated somehow by the Persian's incredulous expression. He suppressed the urge to claw at the eyes that darted back and forth between his own face and that of the woman he held.

"You—I didn't expect to see you so soon after... or, ever…" Nadir trailed off, mouth agape as he crossed his arms and settled his gaze on Aurora.

"Always _lovely _to be reacquainted, Daroga," Erik snarled. Aurora murmured against his chest, eyes peeking out through half-lowered lids. "And now that we've gotten the formalities out of the way, do you think you could perhaps close your mouth and assist me?"

The Persian man's eyes narrowed, his lips pursed into a line so tight that they seemed to disappear.

"What have you done to her, Erik?" he asked.

Erik growled fiercely, emerald eyes sparkling with indignation.

"I did not come here for an _interrogation_," he hissed, "Will you or won't you help me?"

Nadir sighed tiredly and braced his hands in mock surrender. "Put her in there," he said, gesturing to his spare bedroom. Erik flew past him before the words had a chance to escape his lips in their entirety and forced the door open with a swift kick of his foot.

"Now, Erik, if I'm not mistaken, I've been rather hospitable. There really is no need to break the house down," Nadir called out from behind him.

In no mood for humor, Erik laid Aurora down on the large bed, taking special care to rest her head gently on a large, embroidered pillow. He withdrew his hands immediately and in embarrassment, as though he did not care to acknowledge the fact that they'd been wrapped tightly around her waist only moments before.

"Fine..." Aurora mumbled, her voice thick with fatigue, "Feel fine..."

Nadir watched her with concern for a few moments before shifting his gaze to Erik.

"What happened?"

"I suspect that she is ill," Erik said flatly.

Nadir folded his arms across his chest. "You... suspect? Well, how did—"

"_Questions, _Daroga, more _questions_!" Erik bared his teeth frustratedly. "Why don't you see to me _after _her imminent death is no longer a concern!"

Nadir opened his mouth several times before any sound came out of it. "I'll see what I can do."

After a few minutes of busying himself in his kitchen, Nadir emerged with a wet cloth and small tin cup of a foul smelling liquid. Erik eyed him curiously as he knelt beside Aurora, laying the cloth on her forehead while he pressed the cup to her lips. She mumbled in protest against the odor before sipping it in defeat. When she had drained its contents, Nadir stood, examining her for good measure. Erik clenched his jaw.

"Is something the matter?"

"I can't say for certain, but I suspect that she will be fine," Nadir said, "The medicine and some decent rest should heal her some." He paused meaningfully before roving his eyes across the woman's long bandage and the lump on the crown of her head. "I don't recall you ever telling me how she wound up with such injuries, Erik," he said, with a note of mischief in his voice. The masked man grimaced.

"Perhaps we should discuss this outside."

* * *

"_Allah."_

Nadir sighed at the close of Erik's story before refilling his empty cup of tea, casting a weary glance at his friend's still-brimming one.

"In all the years I've known you, Erik, I can't say that I've ever really seen you drink." He made a philosophical gesture towards the cup, one that Erik ignored with a scoff.

"And I certainly didn't come tonight to break that particular tradition, Daroga," he hissed back. Nadir rolled his eyes, his lips pursed to one side in amusement. He dragged his finger along the mouth of the cup, taking care to pick his words.

"Why, Erik?"

The man looked at him piercingly, and Nadir swore that the mask shifted above an expression of anguish.

"I don't know what you mean."

"I don't believe that." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"He had forced himself—" Erik stopped, revolted by the thought. "He was about to hurt her, kill her, perhaps."

Nadir narrowed his eyes. "And killing is wrong now, is it?" he said. Erik bristled at his words, and Nadir made no effort to soften them. "I don't suppose you are aware of the chaos you caused that night, Erik. _Above _ground. There are over seventy dead, two dozen more injured. Men, women—"

"I didn't come here for this!" Erik shouted, standing abruptly. Nadir watched as he lifted his arm slowly, his hand poised threateningly above the fibrous snake tucked carefully into his overcoat.

"You say that quite often," Nadir replied, eyeing him wearily, "And if you intend to kill me with that lasso, let's just have at it and get it out of the way, shall we?"

Erik took a step closer towards the older man, "She—would—have—been—killed," he repeated, drawing out each word as though he were speaking to a dull-witted child. "I don't appreciate repeating myself, Nadir."

"And I am equally as _enthralled_ to hear your reiterations," Nadir countered dryly, slipping past him and walking closer to Aurora's door. "Civility was never one of your strong suits, but if you would just—"

"Just _what?_"

"Let me finish, for one," Nadir answered calmly. With a stubborn flare of his nostrils, Erik returned to his seat on an ottoman, swatting the cup of tea to the floor for good measure. Nadir shook his head in disdain, shrugging to himself as though he were unsure how to proceed with such childishness. Lowering his voice, he leaned against the wall by the door. "Do you intend to return her?"

Erik scowled. "Do I intend to kill her; is that what you're asking?"

"Is that what I asked?"

The men glared at each other frustratedly before Erik turned his head away, a gesture that Nadir had learned long ago to interpret as defeat. Smoothing his shirt coolly, he brought his arms to rest against his chest, waiting for an answer.

"I told her that she could leave when she was healed," Erik muttered under his breath, "And I stand by that promise." Nadir nodded thoughtfully at his answer, and clasped two fingers around his temples.

"May I ask you another question, Erik?"

Erik curled his lips into a malevolent grin. "Why do you suddenly feel the need to ask my permission?"

Ignoring his comment, Nadir continued. "What was it that you hoped to achieve by rescuing her?"

Erik tensed, and Nadir braced himself for the fit of rage that was sure to succeed it. He could see that he'd ignited a particularly worrisome hell in the man's eyes— his salvation would only be granted if he managed to quell its toxic flames. "Erik, I ask only because—"

"Would you rather I left her there to die?" was Erik's quiet response. Nadir was momentarily taken aback by the lack of fury behind his words; how much it appeared to agonize him for them to escape his mouth. He spoke in a dangerously even tone, and Nadir swallowed against his will. "Is that what you wish I had done? What you _expect_ me to have done?"

Nadir clenched his jaw. "Erik, you know perfectly well that that's not what I meant. When you disappeared that night, you were not in the right mind. Chris—"

"I rescued the woman because she would have been taken and murdered, Daroga," he said flatly, "Perhaps if your _god_ had been doing a better job, my assistance would not have been necessary."

Nadir pressed his eyes shut, whispering briefly against his friend's blasphemy. And then softly, he added, "And that is the _only _reason?" Erik's gaze narrowed slowly with understanding, reignited with treacherous blazes of crimson and gold.

"_How dare you_!" he shouted, leaping from his seat, "Did I rescue her to lie with me, is that what you're asking? Because if it is, _god damn it_..." In an instant Erik was looming over Nadir's figure, his eyes hauntingly intense and dark with menace.

The shorter man clenched his jaw again, observing Erik calmly. "It was a question, Erik, and not one without just cause." He squared his shoulders, sighing exasperatedly. "You left_. _Do you remember? _Left._ The girl kissed you and you came completely undone. You let her go. And by _Allah_, you disappeared! You were not thinking clearly! Tell me that when you stumbled across this woman, the thought never crossed your mind!" Finished with his tirade, he was surprised to see that Erik had retreated backwards considerably, his fists trembling by his sides.

"Do I remember? Do I _remember?_" he repeated brokenly, "Can I ever forget?" He paused, his stony gaze falling to the floor. "I never laid a finger on her."

Sensibly keeping a snide comment about the woman's wounds to himself, Nadir nodded slowly. "I believe you, Erik," he replied, struck by the tension and solemnity swirling about the man's words.

Erik bowed his head in a slight nod before continuing. "I—I wasn't thinking... I just couldn't _think _of anything else but... _her_. I needed... I just needed..." His chin fell to his chest in shame, and Nadir curled his lips in amusement at the sheepish boy standing before him.

"Someone, Erik. You needed _someone._ And there's not a scrap of shame in that," he said.

Erik stiffened abruptly, jolted by the electricity of Nadir's words. "I must go," he said, "I must leave. I assume she will be under your utmost supervision."

"Erik, you owe her at least an explanation, don't you—"

"Tell her that this was all a dream, all nonsense," Erik said, "That _you _found her in that alley and put her under a sedative to relieve the pain." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the guestroom, bowing his head in an awkward nod as he walked towards the front door. "Let her leave when she pleases and tell her to forget me."

"I'm surprised that you think you can be so easily forgotten," a voice chimed in. Both men whirled around to find Aurora leaning against the door frame. Her arms were crossed against her chest, a gesture that both men expertly identified as feigned strength. Lips upturned into a slightly perplexed smirk, she nodded towards the front door pointedly.

"You were about to leave?" A pitiful smattering of color had returned to her cheeks, and it was easy to see that she was mustering every ounce of her strength to even stand.

"I— I was—"

"Just about to fetch a few supplies from the shop across the street," Nadir lied effortlessly, "But it can wait." He threw a triumphant glance at Erik who scowled in return, and pressed the door shut with the tip of his pointer finger. Suppressing a chuckle, he took a few steps in Aurora's direction and bowed her head politely.

"Nadir Khan, mademoiselle," he started, pressing the back of her hand to his lips. Erik held back a scoff at the man's grand gesture.

Feebly, the woman nodded back. "Aurora," she replied. She offered a weak smile, and Nadir did not hesitate to point it out.

"If I may, Aurora, you've been through quite a trial these past few days." He glanced vaguely over at Erik before returning to look at her. "And you really must return to bed if you want to heal quickly." Aurora chuckled softly at his advice.

"I appreciate that, Monsieur, but I really should be getting home. It's been so long already—"

"Please call me Nadir. And I apologize on behalf of my friend who has caused you so much trouble—" He paused for a moment, and turned towards Erik, in an attempt to coax something of an apology out of the man. When he received no such thing, he continued, "But I must insist that you stay, at least until tomorrow morning, so that I can see you off with a clean conscience."

The woman bit her lip and opened her mouth as though she wanted to protest, but knew better. So with a slight nod, a sidelong glance cast towards Erik, she retreated into the guest bedroom.

"Damn it, Daroga!" Erik said once he was certain she was out of earshot, "I can leave if I—"

"Just hush and _sit_, Erik," Nadir said exasperatedly, "I find that I can no longer regard your arrogance with indifference."

Erik clenched his jaw. The impertinent little—how had he managed to keep his catgut away from the man's throat for so many years?

"I do not recall there ever being a time when you could." He smirked triumphantly, his hand resting threateningly on the doorknob.

"You seem to have forgotten how long I have known you," Nadir continued, strolling coolly to his modest kitchen. "If you plan on leaving—which we both know you have no intention of doing—I would be most appreciative if you would bring back some tomatoes from the vendor. The poor fellow has seven mouths to feed. _Seven! _Allah, I cannot even fathom the idea. Though, it does keep him open until the most obscene hours of the night, which is fortunate for me on days like this when I find that I'm lacking even the ingredients to make a simple _dolma!_"

He turned expectantly towards Erik, only to find that he was no longer there. With only a slight frown, he glanced around the apartment, his eyes falling upon Aurora's closed door. Grinning to himself in triumph, he reached into a glass bowl on his counter-top and pulled out half a dozen tomatoes, setting them onto a large wooden cutting board. _Always works, _he thought to himself, _always works. _


	6. Whiskey

**Author's Note:** Nope, you're still reading _Mercy! _Despite what you might think after you read this chapter. We're just taking a minor detour to the British Isles, but we'll be back in France soon enough! I hope you're enjoying this story thus far and I'd _love _to hear what you think! :)

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

* * *

_East London, England  
_

Adjusting his cravat, the man slides onto a bar stool, eager to drown his sorrows in a cup of hard liquor. He wipes his thumb across a clean-shaven cheek, and rests his weary head in the cradle of his trembling hands. His finely pressed shirt, wrinkled by the long day's efforts and dampened by the sweat that pools at his collar, fits his long, lean body well, if not a touch too loosely.

The day was a long one for the masses of London―ill-yielding for the farmers, whose crops had grown limp under the usually aloof British sun; bloody for the artisans, whose blistered fingers had forced them to retire for the night early and without supper; and poor for the brothel whores, whose real work was just about to begin, but whose day thus far had been filled only with cheap, greasy swine. And it has been hard for him too, despite being part of the city's upper crust, with his bright blue eyes and straight teeth and fresh, trimmed hair and clean fingernails. It is hard because unlike the farmers and brothel keepers, his wallet is not bruised. It is not his hands that cause him pain, nor the call of hunger from the mouth of a scrawny child. His heart is what hurts tonight, what aches, as though the skin of his chest is pulled too tight across his fine bones.

He has never had much luck when it has come to women, he thinks bitterly, gathering together the scraps of his composure from between the sanctuary of his hands. There are only three women that he has ever courted, and only one that he has ever loved. And there is Jane, the woman of the hour, the woman who has driven him to this very place.

The Blue Moon Pub is not the place for just anybody―certainly not a man with as strong a distaste for alcohol as he―and yet he barely notices just how much he sticks out from the crowd, in the way a champagne flute might stick out amongst a few sticky mugs of beer. Somehow the voluptuous women who peer at him through sultry, heavy-lidded eyes never can quite catch his gaze, nor can the stocky, inebriated men who sit beside them capture his attention with their vulgar hoots and low sniggering.

A plump, rosy woman emerges from behind the bar, and saunters over, bending over the counter to give him a hearty view of her generous bosom.

"See anything you like?" she says, before flashing a yellowed, gap-toothed grin.

He is repulsed, but does not act so, for he is far too well-bred and his manners would never permit him to act like such a dog. So he looks up, and clears his throat politely, before asking for a whiskey with a quiet _please and thank you_. He doesn't catch the way the woman's brows rise like he has told her that he is one of the princes of England. And then, with a fond smile, she ducks her head and goes to fetch him his drink.

The liquid is the color of a light honey, and as it rises up towards the mouth of the glass, she wonders where the man is from. He does not quite sound British. There is a richness to his voice, like a thick molasses, that curls around some words and rolls over others in ways that confirm her suspicions that he is foreign. French, perhaps, if her ear is not yet ruined, if there still are some smarts left in the wrinkled old thing that she has become.

She swings around, whiskey in hand, and plops it down on the counter in front of him. He looks at it and bows his head graciously, before bringing the glass to his lips and taking a deep swig. He closes his eyes, his chest stills, and for a brief second, the woman is certain he is drowning. But as quickly as they closed, his eyes open once more, and his moist, swollen lips part eagerly.

"Another, please."

If there is one thing she has learned from her time at the Blue Moon Pub, it is that her customers are always running form _something. _But she cannot quite figure out what _he _could be running from. This detail perplexes her. He looks nearly two decades younger than she, his brown curls far fuller and darker than the hair on many of the other heads that fill her modest little pub. It occurs to her, on more than one occasion, that the man is wonderfully attractive. It sets off a swell of excitement in her loins, an youthful lust, a need so disparate with the soft folds around her thick waist, with the creases carved deep into her brow, with the salt and pepper of her thinning hair. With a pang of envy, she tries to imagine what his wife must look like, the reason for his rendezvous to the East End. He is handsome, so she must be a goddess, she thinks bitterly. Fussy and beautiful with an English-rose face and full hips and a slim waist. Perhaps it is his spoiled-rotten children that have tired him so, driven him to find release in the throes of sweet whiskey.

"What's the matter with you, handsome?" The words tumble out of her mouth before she can stop them, but she doesn't regret her slip of the tongue. She likes this man for some reason―finds his bewildered air, pleasing manners, and soft brown curls endearing somehow. Like the son she could never have, and the husband she could never keep, all melted and molded into one man. She needs to know what it is that is bothering him, and how she can help. So when he pauses for a moment, downs his second glass, and tells her that he is fine, the answer does not satisfy her. She tries again.

"You don't look fine to _me_," she says. Picking up a rag, she starts to wring it over a nearby bucket. The man watches the motions absentmindedly, the lines that form along the length of the rag as she tugs on it with calloused fingers, the grotesque brown droplets that fall into the bucket with a _pitter-patter _he knows he will not be able to get out of his head for a long time.

"Then I suggest you invest in some spectacles." He tries to sound stern, but he has never been a stern man, and eventually succumbs to the sour laughter that burns against his throat.

_Pitter-patter. _

The woman's eyes widen. She is taken aback by the man's strange laughter, and all she can do is stand before him, trying to change the wounded expression that she reads so blatantly across her face. It seems wrong somehow to join in on his laughter, this weak, mocking sort of laughter that sounds just as happy as it does sad. Her fingers release the rag and instead wrap themselves around the handle of his mug, as she steals it away to refill it.

"Suit yourself," she says, with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, "I can only try. Thought I could ease your mind off of your wife―"

"I'm _not _married."

The woman smiles to herself, discreetly. The fact that he is unmarried pleases her. No, the vehemence with which he delivers that particular detail is what pleases her. But also confuses her, because she has never seen such somber eyes on a bachelor. Makes her a shade suspicious too, as to why he hasn't busied himself with the heavy breasts and the bare thighs that wait for him by the back tables.

"Oh?" she says, quirking an eyebrow, replacing the mug onto the circle of condensation that it has left on her clean counter top.

Raking his fingers through his thick, dark hair, the man sighs, and the woman cannot recall a sweeter sound.

"Never could get that far," he tells her with the most pathetic smile on his lips, "I suppose I'm not the type." Her suspicions that he is a Frenchman have now been confirmed, and that knowledge makes her nervous, as though his ship back to France is leaving soon, and she only a few more minutes with him so near. It makes her want to kiss him all over, but she settles for focusing on his smooth, broad palms.

"You look the type," she says. Her brows furrow. What an interesting specimen, this man. What a lovely voice he has, and what bright eyes, and what happy manners. Something must be wrong with him, she decides. Something _down there_. Perhaps he is too small to keep a woman interested. Too dainty to sate their physical desires. But somehow that doesn't seem to be the case. He is far too confident, far too masculine, with broad, proud shoulders, and tufts of dark brown hair that peek out from beneath his shirt. It isn't that he can't keep a woman at _all_, she decides. It is that he has not yet found the right one, the one who can make his knees weak and his head swim and his heart pound. The one whose name can birth a swell of overwhelming bliss in his chest, can ignite the fiercest of flames in the pit of his belly. It all makes sense to her now, and she tells him so.

"You left her, didn't you?"

The man swallows back a mouthful of whiskey before setting his mug down on the counter.

"How did you know?"

The woman grins like a child at his confirmation.

"She was ready to marry but you found that you were not. And when she asked you why, you couldn't do anything but pull some rubbish right out of your ass. I'll bet she saw right through it, too. Told you to go to hell and that she never would have―"

"Married me anyway," the man finishes. He looks more amused than stunned, with a more pleasing tilt to his full mouth than the limp smile that graced it before. "Perhaps your true home is out on the streets, reading palms with the gypsies," he says, and a few notes of laughter fall out of him.

"Doesn't pay as well," the woman replies, without missing a beat. "Now, are you going to tell me what happened, or do I need to pour a few more bottles of this down your throat?" She lifts the half-empty bottle of whiskey, dragging it back and forth in the air like a pendulum.

The man laughs, his guarded exterior shattered by the alcohol, a friendly glaze over his bright eyes.

"I broke off the engagement this afternoon. Told her that I wasn't ready for marriage, for the commitment, for the _children._ And of course it was all a lie." He emphasizes the _of course_, which the woman thinks is telling, as though everybody in all of Great Britain knows just how keen he is to marry. He slurs a few of his words, and the woman laughs at the fact that it makes it easier somehow for her to understand him through his accent. Quietly, he adds, "It was just that I didn't want to marry _her." _

The woman lowers her voice, and grins, revealing once more her yellowed teeth. "Not much of a looker?" she asks.

The man is vaguely offended. He still has the mind to think _that_ rich, the pot calling the coffee black or however the saying goes. He tries to think of a few eloquent words to string together into a sentence, but all of a sudden the whiskey has caught up with him―his vision is blurry and the contents of his stomach sloshes around like turbulent seawater.

"Jane is beautiful, actually," he finally says, regaining enough composure to defend her honor, "And smart. Kind. But not... right. She just wasn't _right._"

The woman takes a deep breath, and her face relaxes in the way that a child's might upon solving a particularly troublesome problem in arithmetic.

"What's her name?"

"Jane. Didn't I already―"

"No, not _her. _The other name. The name of the woman that ruined you."

All of a sudden, his throat has gone dry and his chest has tightened, and every inch of him has gone dead-sober. The whiskey feels heavy in his belly, like lead. The woman sees that she has scared him off, for his eyes have grown distant and the knuckles clasped around his mug have paled.

_S_he smiles fleetingly and with triumph.

"Have _you _got a name?" she says quickly, trying to lift him from his trance. She feels invested now, in this love story of his, almost as though it is up to her to see it through.

He livens up a little bit at the sound of her voice, but only a little, and the slightest bit of light seems to flood back into his eyes.

"Adrien," he says.

"Well, let me tell you something, _Adrien_," the woman says, leaning towards him as though she is letting him in on a secret, "Men like you don't come in here often." Her eyes twinkle, and she pauses for a second to poke her tongue through the gap between her front teeth. "_Excoo-zay mwah,_ _mon-so__or_," she continues in battered French, "Men like you don't come here _ever. _You have all your teeth, for one. You actually _thanked _me for your whiskey, and three glasses in and you're already drunk. I might not be as pretty or young as those little French girls you've got back at home―you know, the ones with all that rouge and those big ruffled skirts and those bloody long legs, but I'm good at reading people. And let me tell you, whoever she is, she made a big mistake when she let you go."

_Now _the man is stunned, all traces of the amusement gone entirely from his face. It has been what―months? no―years since he has last thought of her, since he has _really _thought of her―not in the mere fleeting reminders that have come in the days since her, or in the scattered relics that she has left behind, the ones that surface every once in a while when _Maman_ sails over from Marseilles and insists on cleaning his entire flat from top to bottom. She bags them up, puts them in boxes amongst crinkled nests of tissue paper. He always finds it worth a laugh how neatly she can box the memories up, put them away on the highest shelves of his attic, when his own mind cannot find the task half as easy.

"It's a waste of your time to try to forget her." The woman's voice is muted over the pulsing in his ears. "You should try to find her instead. If there is one thing I've learned, it's that life is too short to not go after what you want. I had a man once in my life..."

He kneads his temples roughly, for now in addition to his gurgling stomach and his angry heart, his head pounds. Jane had been wrong about one crucial thing. Often she had told him how distracted he was sometimes, how hollow his gaze could seem to her, how empty his kisses, how his entire being could be so near one second, and so incredibly far away the next that it almost seemed like he was floating away. That is what she had been wrong about. He is shackled to the ground so tightly that his calves hurt. That his wrists perpetually feel like they are bleeding. That his blood feels meek and stagnant. But he is shackled to a world of another time, one of sharp tongues and honey-colored hair and weak ankles.

Time is supposed to heal all wounds, and yet how his cuts still bleed! He thinks this beneath the woman's concerned stare, and it seems all the more unjust under the haze of alcohol.

"You don't look so good, boy."

These are the words that break Adrien out of his reverie, that snap his neck upwards so that his shining eyes meet hers. She realizes that he has the most brilliant blue eyes she has ever seen, and the kindest smile, and the curliest hair. She finds comfort in the tapping of his foot, the healthy flush that has settled into his cheeks, the glow that his returned to his once sallow skin. And though it all brings her inexplicable joy, it scares her for a moment too. It scares her because in all the years she has worked in this place, between all the people who have walked through her doors, she has never seen anyone so _alive_.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Please don't forget to review! It really does keep me going. :)


	7. Night

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

* * *

Erik drummed his fingers against the bedroom door. Every ounce of him itched to turn the brass doorknob and make a clean escape. To big Nadir farewell. To turn a second doorknob and stumble into the darkness that had always provided him some semblance of a home.

But it wasn't going to be so easy tonight. For the first time in a long time, there were questions that he had to answer. The Phantom had long managed to circumvent such trivialities by penning cryptic letters, by executing his role down to every fearsome detail. People had questions _about _the ghost, certainly, but never had there been a true face to direct those questions towards. Tonight, the Phantom was not so lucky. Beneath the porcelain mask, his every ounce of flesh felt terribly mortal.

"I have many things to say to you, monsieur," Aurora said, sitting at the foot of her bed. Her wounded right knee was visible through a slit in her skirts, and Erik mused that there was something rather profound about the way the purple bruise stood out against the cream of her skin.

"It is in your best interest that you keep those things brief and few, mademoiselle," he countered, crossing his arms against his chest, "I do not plan on spending the rest of my hours here sating your every whim and answering your every question."

The woman let out a humorless chuckle, and stood abruptly to reposition herself by the window.

"Then answer me just this one. Must you _do _that all the time?" she asked tiredly, "Is it really so difficult for you to be civil? I do not wish for you to be so inconvenienced by me, monsieur. Perhaps you need to be reminded that I did not ask for any of this in the first place!"

Erik closed his eyes and clenched his fists. He attempted to recall a few distant lessons in civility, and found that he could not do so. Instead, he pursed his misshapen lips and braced himself for another onslaught of the woman's berating.

"I only wanted to thank you for what you did for me that night." She cleared her throat. "I do not believe that I ever got the chance to do so, given both our... frames of mind, but I would like you to know that I am grateful for your assistance and your hospitality."

Erik found himself in a rare state ― speechless. He swallowed hard to wet his dry throat, and searched the woman's eyes for any traces of insincerity.

"You needn't mention it," he said quietly, as he fixed his gaze upon the floor. "Is that all?"

"Yes," Aurora replied quickly, "Yes. That is all I had to say."

"Very well." Erik turned on his heel and braced his hand above the brass doorknob.

"Wait!"

The man's frame tensed once again. _Of course there is something else_, he thought bitterly. _Those words are far too sweet!_

"I am listening."

Aurora cleared her throat again, and through the corner of his eye, Erik could spot her wringing her hands against one another.

"I heard what you and Monsieur Khan were speaking about earlier and I wanted to know who..." She trailed off, apprehensive.

Erik took a deep breath. "Say it."

"It's just that you spoke of her so often―"

"SAY IT!"

Erik whirled around, bellowing the words with such a ferocity that it nearly made Aurora jump. Her nostrils flared with disdain for his tone, and she dug her toes into the carpet.

"Who is Christine?"

The man let himself out, and slammed the door behind him.

* * *

"Aurora?"

Nadir tapped on the door with a single knuckle, balancing a wicker tray on his other palm. He cast a sidelong glance at the timepiece in the sitting room, noting with a touch of annoyance that Erik had been gone for over two hours. _That man will be the end of me, _he thought, pressing his eyes shut to enjoy a well-deserved moment of stillness. The steaming dishes that he had set upon the tray burned his skin through the wicker, breaking him from his reverie.

"Aurora, only if you feel up to it, perhaps you would like to join me―"

The door opened before he could finish, and a rosy-cheeked woman poked her head out of the bedroom to greet him. While her fingers finished off a thick plait that fell well below her shoulder, she curled her lips into a warm smile at the sight of Nadir's thoughtfully prepared meal.

"I would _love_ to join you," she said, "I know they're doctor's orders, but if I rest any longer, I worry that you will have a mad woman on your hands."

Nadir chuckled. With a nod, he made his way towards the dining table and set a plate of food on each place mat. Steam rose from roasted tomatoes which sat elegantly on their plates, mingling with the scent of a delicious green tea. Aurora settled into a chair at his table, breathing in the foreign aromas, and watched the man finish his work in his kitchen. She waited for him to bring out a third plate, and found herself annoyed by her own naivete when it never came.

"Erik will not be joining us for dinner," she stated simply.

"I'm afraid not," Nadir replied.

"He will not be returning at all, then?"

Nadir quirked an eyebrow and wagged a finger playfully at the woman. "I never said _that_, now, did I?" He paused for a moment to take the opposite seat. "Shall we eat, mademoiselle? Erik has never had much regard for a proper schedule, but I for one, am _famished._" His warm smile made a reappearance, and it stole away Aurora's sour face.

"I am so sorry to have slept through all of your hard work," she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "Is there anything I can do to repay you for your kindness?"

"Don't be sorry for a moment," he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand, "You seem quite well and that is the best reward I could have asked for." Aurora was comforted by the man's even, gentle tone. "But if you would like to repay me," he continued, "Promise me that we will have no leftovers."

They shared the sort of laugh that two old friends might share, and after one bite, Aurora did not need to be asked again to clear her plate.

After their short, quiet dinner, Aurora let out a deep breath and draped her utensils across the mouth of her bowl. She cursed inwardly for being such a glutton ― and before company, no less! ― but for the life of her, couldn't recall having ever eaten a meal even half as delicious as the one she had devoured.

"I don't believe I ever thanked you for all that you have done for me, _mons_―_Nadir. _But I'm afraid that I am finding it difficult to breathe at this moment and that you may have to wait a little longer."

Nadir was alarmed. His dark brown eyes widened, carving out the creases that age had painted around them.

"Are you feeling unwell again, _mademoiselle_? A bit light-headed, too warm perhaps―"

"A bit _rotund, monsieur_," she interrupted with a grin. She patted her belly lightly. "I fear that you have been far too good to me. That was a meal fit for a queen!"

"You are very kind," Nadir replied, scooping up her dish into his own before she could protest. "Could the queen perhaps find space for another kettle of tea?"

Aurora peered down at her belly, and hummed in thought.

"I think she has a bit of space right... _here_."

Nadir chuckled and reached for a silver canister.

* * *

The house was absolutely marvelous ― but only if one had the sense to take a close enough look at it. As Nadir led her away from the dining table and towards his small sitting room, Aurora realized that she had been far too absorbed by her own thoughts to thoroughly take in her surroundings. What she had missed, she decided, just so happened to be absolutely exquisite.

The man appeared to have an appreciation for simplistic beauty, an observation that both comforted Aurora and plagued her with a sense of loneliness on his behalf. The flat was unmistakably that of a single man, and yet bore no resemblance to Erik's home. While Erik seemed to revel in excess, with shelves and shelves of useless artifacts buried in dust and lining his decrepit walls, Nadir had only a maroon divan perched up against a creamy wall with two throw pillows resting upon it. A large ottoman, decorated with gold tassels and upholstered with fabric the color of burned sugar stood across from the divan, separated by a low, glass-topped coffee table with dark mahogany legs. There was a comfort to be found in the man's modest but full bookshelf ― something actually _worth _splurging on, in Aurora's humble opinion ― and especially in the painting of a woman that hung above it. A pair of incredibly beautiful brown eyes, large and lined with a generous amount of kohl, peered up shyly from beneath thick, dark eyelashes and a heavy, but elegantly shaped eyebrows. A large gold stud ornamented the woman's delicate nose. Aurora was charmed by the mischief that played on the woman's plump lips, the glow that seemed to emanate from her flushed cheeks. A green shawl covered her dark, curly hair and settled around her small shoulders, while lower still, her long, thin fingers caressed a pink bundle in her arms.

"My wife and son," Nadir said fondly, gesturing to the painting. Aurora turned towards him sheepishly. "Don't worry," he said, "You are not the only one who finds herself utterly enchanted by it."

"There's just something about it..." Aurora started, "I don't know how to explain it. They're both very beautiful. Did you paint it all by yourself?"

"Oh, no, no, nothing of the sort," Nadir replied, trying to suppress a chuckle. "I didn't trust myself to get every detail just right." His lips curled into a small, wistful smile, and Aurora looked away for fear of intruding upon the man in a moment of private admiration. Clearing his throat in visible embarrassment, he shook his head. "I apologize. Ten years it has hung here and still the sight of them takes my breath away."

"They're still... in Persia?" she asked.

"Buried in Persia, yes." Abruptly, he tore his eyes away from the painting, turning to take a seat on the ottoman across from Aurora.

"Oh, Nadir, I'm so sorry." Instinctively, she touched his hand and gave him a sympathetic smile. He nodded in quiet appreciation and she leaned back against a throw pillow.

"I know what it feels like," she continued in a voice so quiet that Nadir was momentarily unsure whether she even wanted to be heard. "It's as though you don't ever feel like you can quite be whole again." She knit her brows together and the glossy sheen that formed over her eyes made Nadir feel strangely detached from her, as though he had lost her forever to an ocean of her own abstractness. He wondered briefly about the woman's past, realizing that he knew almost nothing about her, save for the fact that Erik had rescued her from one of the grittier alleys of the city only to steal her away for himself. Who had _she _lost? Who were the people she spoke of now, the ones that had damned her to eternal incompletion?

"May I ask you something, Nadir?"

Her eyes were suddenly bright, and she was broken from her reverie. Nadir brought his hand to his chin and stroked it ― a gesture of apprehension that made him grateful for Erik's absence. Aurora lifted the small brass tea kettle, and refilled the man's empty cup. The glow of an ornately carved lamp beside them illuminated the man's tufts of graying hair. Aurora found that if she focused enough, stole enough glances when he wasn't looking, that she could see a sorrow betrayed by his kind eyes and upturned lips ― a profound exhaustion beneath the wrinkles in his skin.

"Of course," he said.

Aurora set her cup down before her. "I don't understand him." She paused to chuckle over the fact that she hadn't quite managed to ask a proper question. "I suppose what I'm _trying_ to say is ― what happened to him? To Erik, I mean? Why is he the way he is? I find that I cannot recall a single other person who has infuriated me as much as he has, and yet has left me with such burning _curiosity,_" ― Nadir quirked his brow at that word― "Let alone a person whose last name I do not even know!"

With a tight, cautious smile, he looked down into his tea.

"Perhaps these questions of yours are better left answered by Erik himself," he replied.

Disappointed, Aurora fixed her gaze on an indistinguishable spot on the floor. "If he ever decides to come back," she spat. Nadir watched in amusement as the woman's cheeks flushed suddenly with anger.

"I found him in Russia," he started quietly, "In Bolkhov, I believe, or at least something to that effect. My task to fetch him was one assigned to me by the _shah_," he explained, spreading his hands before him.

"He mentioned having spent some time in Persia," Aurora recounted.

Nadir's eyebrows lifted. "Did he? Well, he was unbearable to travel with, Aurora - I don't suppose he told you _that_. The man made me certain that with every passing step, I was getting closer and closer to my execution. The _shah_ would never tolerate my returning to him empty handed. Erik would vanish throughout our journey back to Mazandaran, you see. For hours at a time, no less! He... he was like a ghost, Aurora. A wretched, careless ghost. I never inquired after his whereabouts, though privately I always wondered. But, you know..." He drained the last drop of tea and set his cup down beside Aurora's. "He always did return."

"I take it you've known him for a long time."

"I suppose you could say that ― I _have_ walked this earth for longer than I care to admit."

Aurora took a deep breath, and fumbled with her fingers.

"What is it that he fears so much?" she asked.

Nadir smiled politely, and leaned forward to collect their saucers and cups.

"It is not my liberty to say," he said. The dishes rattled in his thin, worn hands.

"I've already seen his face, monsieur."

His fingers stilled, and the dishes were silenced.

"Then surely you already have the answer to your question, mademoiselle."

"Monsieur," Aurora tried again, "_Please._"

Nadir lowered the dishes into the sink, and leaned forward against the kitchen counter.

"Perhaps you will allow me to ask you something first."

"Anything."

"Why does he matter to you, Aurora? Under my roof you are a free woman, free to come and go as you please, and yet in his absence, never once did you voice a desire to leave. You _wish_ to stay. You _wish_ to see him return. You mentioned earlier that he arouses your curiosity, and forgive me mademoiselle for being so thick, but I do not understand it. He doesn't _frighten _you? He doesn't _anger _you? What allows you to see past his glaring peculiarities and be merely _intrigued_?"

Aurora smiled a small, polite smile, and met Nadir's strong gaze.

"He terrifies me, Nadir. He _infuriates _me. And you are absolutely correct ― I _do _wish to stay. I do wish to see him return. And that shouldn't make any sense at all. But you see monsieur, what terrifies me is how incredibly familiar he seems. What angers me is the way he knows how to counter my every word. You asked me why he matters to me, how I can look beyond the mask and the temper long enough to be intrigued... It is simply because he reminds me of somebody I once knew, and I never for a moment dared to think that I would ever encounter such a soul for a second time."

A long pause followed, during which Nadir took a long, deep breath.

"I will tell you what you wish to know," he said finally. "But first, I have a request of my own. Tell me a little about yourself. It's just that I know so little about you..."

* * *

The door creaked open just as the clock's twelfth chime echoed through the house. After he and Aurora had emptied the last kettle of tea, Nadir had draped himself across the length of the divan while his guest retired to her room for a proper full night's rest. His head was perched upon a throw pillow, and at the other length of him, his legs were crossed elegantly over one another. Despite his deep slumber, he stirred easily at the sound of the intruder ― a habit from a life lived long ago ― blinking back the fatigue that weighed down his eyelids.

"Erik? Erik, is that you?"

A grunt answered him through the darkness, followed by the loud _swish! _of an overcoat.

"It's quite late, even by your standards, wouldn't you agree?" Nadir let out a languid chuckle, and settled himself back against the divan, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, Erik?"

"Leave me alone, Nadir."

"Suit yourself. I was simply under the impression that you would want to hear of what went on in your absence. The meal that your guest and I shared, the topics of our conversation, perhaps. But you are right. It _is _too late for such idle chatter..."

From the other side of the room, Erik buried his unmasked face in his hands, and rubbed his throbbing temples. He inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself and stifle his irritation. Nadir's words were a baited hook, and despite knowing so, Erik found himself being reeled in.

"What did you tell her about me?" he said tiredly. He knew very well that Nadir did not keep alcohol around the house as a rule, and this detail only served to intensify Erik's sudden desire for a fine brandy. When Nadir did not reply, he clenched his teeth and tried once more, drawing out each word impatiently. "What―did―you―tell―her, Nadir?"

"Only what I knew you would allow, old friend." The older man cleared his throat. "But that wasn't what I was referring to. It was rather what _she _told _me_ that I suspect would be of interest to you."

Erik lifted his head ever so slightly. "What did she tell you?" he asked quietly, controlling his voice carefully so that he did not betray his burning curiosity.

Nadir yawned loudly.

"Oh, I don't know," he mumbled, "It's so late, I can hardly remember a word she said."

Nadir spent his last waking moment picturing his old friend's furious expression, pleased by the knowledge that his own mischievous smile was thoroughly masked by the darkness of the night.


End file.
